


Seven Times Seven

by Vaysh



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Curses, M/M, Ravens, Unicorns, no bestiality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-17
Updated: 2015-01-17
Packaged: 2018-03-07 23:31:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3187310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaysh/pseuds/Vaysh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two wizards, a raven and a unicorn live in an old tower by the sea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seven Times Seven

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Candamira](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Candamira/gifts).



> Written for the 2014 [](http://community.livejournal.com/hd_owlpost/profile)[](http://community.livejournal.com/hd_owlpost/)**hd_owlpost** Winter Fest.
> 
> This ficlet has been inspired by Candamira's wonderful prompt: _Draco has to spend his days as a unicorn and can only be human at night while Harry on the contrary has to spend his nights as a raven, turning into his human form with the first ray of sun. Will the magic of Christmas break the curses?_ It deserves a much longer story but I hope you enjoy this little tale.

  


The tower stands on the coastal hills they call the Ridges of Dawn. It is made from red bricks and wood blanched by the salt-filled wind. Its door is painted a green that goes well with the colour of the sea, early morning in early summer. 

The tower's first two floors have narrow arrowslits that were useful in another time. From the third floor upwards, it's rows and rows of windows. Whoever visits the tower will later tell of the light of sun and moon flooding it, always. The top of the tower is reserved for the owlery. The wide open space reaches all the way to the parapet. The owl perches are snuck in the back and sheltered from wind and rain by a tiled roof on slender columns. The roof is green, same as the tower's door. At night the tiles glitter in the moonlight.

For years, the tower had been abandoned. Now two wizards live in it. One has pitch-black hair and a scar, the other is pointy-pale; his hair shines bright like a beacon on the sea. 

They share the tower with two animals – not that the tower minds. The unicorn is clearly magical, a beast from legends but here it roams the forest and the dunes. Its horn looks like burnished silver; its white fur gleams like drops of water on spider-webs. Every once in a while a stray wanderer will see it galloping on the beach at noon or playing with the waves in the afternoon.

The other animal is a bird, a common raven who appears wholly ordinary at first sight. Until one notices its feathers; they are of the kind of black that absorbs the light, a colour both dull and brilliant, depending on the angle the moonlight takes when it falls on it. The raven cannot speak the human tongue because only ravens in fairy tales can. This is not a fairy tale. And yet, the raven will give night-time visitors such knowing looks. It will brood over letters and books. It even – and the tower notices such things – scans the engravings in the stone walls, the smitten messages of love as much as the deep old scratches beside the arrowslits.

Life in the tower is divided between night and day. After sundown, the blond wizard can be seen at the door of the tower, or up in the owlery. The raven will often be near, sitting on his shoulder or joining the owls when they are setting out on their night-time prowls. Once the sun rises, the black-haired wizard is around, taking walks or cutting firewood with a chopping spell. The unicorn accompanies him sometimes, and on rare occasions, it even allows him on its back. They ride through the dunes, then, man and beast, wizard and unicorn.

The tower has a library. Tucked into the mezzanine between the kitchen and the living room, it is more spacious than one would think. And it is ancient. The stones of the tower have excellent memory, but even they don't remember when the first leather-bound tome was put on a shelf, or when the first scholar stood at one of the reading desks. Chairs have been added in past centuries, wooden ones first, and then more comfortable ones. There are two wingback chairs set close to the fire-place now. One remains always empty.

The kitchen is half potion lab with one entire wall stocked with phials, bundles of herbs and delicate scales. At night, hellebore fragrance mingles with the earthy odour of valerian root when one cauldron bubbles with the Draught of Living Death, another with the Draught of Peace. The raven sits perched on the cupboard while the blond wizard crushes sopophorous beans with a silver knife. During the day, the sweeter scents of treacle tart waft through the kitchen, the hearty smell of stew or Shepherd's Pie. The unicorn snores on a rug before the oven when the black-haired wizard prepares a meal. There are two chairs at the kitchen table. But only one cup of tea sits steaming on the chequered table cloth.

Winter Solstice is the longest night and the shortest day. More hours for the raven, less for the unicorn. More hours for the blond wizard, less for his black-haired companion.

They have waited seven times seven years. Seven times seven Winter Solstices when the veil between night and day grows thin, so thin to _almost_ let the raven and the unicorn through. For some curses there is no counter-curse, and this one needed to run its course. Seven times seven summers, seven times seven springs and autumns. Now is the seven times seventh winter. This year will be different. The tower has watched the wizards grow old, together but separated by night and day. There is grey in their hair, there are wrinkles around their eyes. Chopping wood, stirring potions, racing through the dunes, circling the tower – they no longer do these things with the recklessness of youth. They move more powerful now, more deliberate, more set on finishing a task. The wizards both wank on their own, gentler, slower these days, but no less thrilling, in the quiet of the night the one, in the afternoon stillness the other. 

It is the morning of the Winter Solstice. The blond wizard lies on their bed, tucked underneath a woollen quilt and awake. The raven rests in the crook of his arm. They often sleep like this during winter nights. But this is not the time for sleep. Already, the grey light of morning pools before the window. It will be a clear day. The blond wizard nudges the raven. It rubs its beak against the wizard's cheek; it flutters awake, it stretches its wings. It flies to the open window and alights on the window sill. 

The blond wizard rises and wraps the quilt around his naked body. He joins the raven at the window and strokes its feathers. They are soft like the finest silk. Behind the night clouds the red of morning appears. In the distance the sea turns golden. The light is spreading fast, coming closer. The blond wizard keeps stroking the raven.

The sun rises from the ocean. Like a fiery ball it edges upward from the end of the world. The clouds turn pink and the first ray of the sun reaches the shore. Daylight floods the beach, the dunes. The chopping block emerges from the shadows, the garden before the green door is drenched in morning light. A golden ray reaches the raven.

It gawks, softly, and is gone. In its stead, the black-haired wizard, all in the nude, sits on the window sill. The blond wizard keeps stroking his hair, which is raven-black and wild. Slowly, the black-haired wizard turns his head.

"Draco." His voice is raw, and yet he sung Christmas carols only yesterday. He slides off the window sill and puts his hands on the blond wizard's shoulders. Who in turn moves his palms up the black-haired wizard's waist. "Harry."

They have never touched like this. Forty-nine years ago, they were partners, almost friends, but never lovers. They kiss for the very first time. Sunlight floods the room that has been their bedroom high up in the tower for all those years. Draco's hair shimmers like burnished silver, and Harry's hair absorbs the light into its deep and brilliant black. Their hands never leave the other's body, not when they move to the bed, not when they slip back underneath the quilt. Outside, the sun rises fully over the horizon. The stones of the tower soak up her warmth. Winter Solstice has begun.

* * *


End file.
